


A Little Bit More Than All of This

by oosans



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: ....idek where to begin with this one, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, THEY BOTH LOVE EACH OTHER SO MUCH, i guess, i talk about poetry too much, its for kallen uwoo ilysm, miscommunication????, non-au ig, seonghwa just loves hongjoong so much, there is angst but only a little bit!!, uwu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28934790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oosans/pseuds/oosans
Summary: Hongjoong wasn’t one or the other, he was an impossible answer to an impossible question, a three-line poem in a five-page stanza; something entirely unthinkable because he was entirely unimaginable.Hongjoong kissed like poetry, and Seonghwa was the empty page.
Relationships: Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa
Comments: 18
Kudos: 143





	A Little Bit More Than All of This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hj_pan_cake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hj_pan_cake/gifts).



> hi
> 
> this is for kallen loml
> 
> i dont really edit or proof read that well so if theres mistakes thats not my fault . ignore them.

There is a trickle of light, like the sliver of a thigh, reaching through to the back wall of their bedroom and casting a shallow kind of glow on a stack of Hongjoong’s unread poetry books. They’re second-hand, their spines cracked and worn by past lovers, and he itches to scratch his finger down Hongjoong’s skin the same way one might the flaking spines of the novels on the makeshift shelf.

They’re in Korean, mostly, though a few English words stand out to him—something about guidance and flowers in full bloom and their likeness to hearts in love, and how sometimes even the most beautiful of inflorescences needed cutting back and pruned.

Seonghwa thinks there’s something a little heartbreaking in knowing that the roses we give to our lovers have been stolen from a love of somewhere and someone else. He finds it even more so knowing that Hongjoong deemed these blooms—these collections of intricate little wordings of various metre and anaphora and caesura and refrain within a common or iambic measure—a suitable soil for germinating the seed of his music. _Heartbreaking_ , he thinks, but there’s something beautiful within all of that, too: the ability to take something morbid and full of distain and make it a three-and-a-half-minute concoction of empowerment and lyricism.

He was their leader for a reason, after all, but Seonghwa just wishes Hongjoong didn’t feel the need to carry the weight of strangers’ love as well.

The day feels slow, though Seonghwa only properly rises a little past midday when Yunho yelps something about glass in his finger and Wooyoung is chortling, uncaring, in the background. Hongjoong isn’t in bed nor is he on the couch; his bag is missing from the front door and he’s left his USB adaptor in the wall where he had hurriedly yanked his charger from the grid. His absence is noticed but unsurprising. It had been this way for years now.

Yunho nods his head in greeting but focuses more on the tiny speck of blood on his pointer finger than he does on Seonghwa’s sudden appearance. He’s known these boys for long enough to know what is being expected of him: he yanks the first aid kit from the middle drawer on the far-left side of the kitchen, below the one full of Wooyoung’s cooking utensils but above the useless drawer full of odds and ends and instruction manuals no one knew what to do with, and guides Yunho to run his finger under warm, not hot, water. With the skin softened, Seonghwa takes a sterilised pin and methodically flips the tiny shard out of the flesh, the wound thankfully shallow, and wipes it down with an alcohol swab before tightening a bandage over it.

Yunho thanks him and proceeds to make coffee while Seonghwa cleans up the broken drinking glass in the sink. Wooyoung excuses himself to Yeosang’s room, no doubt still asleep, and Seonghwa’s phone buzzes in his pocket—it’ll be San asking him if he wants to work out again today.

 _No, I don’t,_ Seonghwa will think, _sure, see you soon,_ he will respond.

He’ll get changed and get a car sorted and head to the company gym. He knows this type of routine, it’s cyclical, and he lives it every day: when it’s not glass in Yunho’s finger, it’s something in Jongho’s eye; and if not a stray eyelash, then Yeosang was having another migraine and couldn’t remember where he had put his pills.

He brings the USB adaptor from the living room wall with him to the company and ignores how it weighs a tonne in the front pocket of his shoulder bag. His plan is to first drop it off to Hongjoong on his way to the gym, but their manager runs into him and he hands that duty off to someone else. He works out for an hour or so until his lungs hurt, and his calves are screaming. He showers, goes home.

Routine—all of this.

It is also part of the routine that while Hongjoong leaves early, silent on his toes and ghost-like in his movements, he also arrives, when he bothers to, home late. Seonghwa doesn’t hold this fact against him—understands that while it is the blood in his own veins that keeps him going, it is the documentable progress within a production programme that keeps Hongjoong alive.

His work is tedious and fickle but nonetheless important, and what with the way every song on every album they’ve ever released—and even on those that they haven’t—find their way into Seonghwa’s daily playlist, he knows all that hard work pays off. At the start, back before they had debuted and during their first year of promotions, it had been somewhat of a different story: Seonghwa wasn’t sure Hongjoong’s long nights and breakdowns in the shower and skipped meals and dehydration headaches were ever going to be worth it.

Hongjoong, more often than not, proves him wrong.

Seonghwa thinks about flowers and seasonal blooming periods, how the evolved blooms end up with someone else, but the isolated ones just stay alone forever. Seonghwa wants nothing more than to be with him and make him happy, but what makes Hongjoong happy is to lock his studio door.

It’s true that when Hongjoong does arrive home, late or in the early hours of the next day, as always, he collapses on the couch instead of his top bunk. At first, Seonghwa found it admirable: he did it to avoid waking Seonghwa up, especially what with his new schedule for the drama occupying most of his time. But now, with filming wrapping up and Seonghwa’s schedule well and truly _empty_ aside from little meetings here and there, Hongjoong’s selflessness persists.

Seonghwa wonders about the condition of his back, about broken book spines, about long hair falling on smooth skin in the middle of the night. He wonders if he’s eating properly, knows that he isn’t, and lies awake most nights waiting to hear the chirp of the door pad unlocking or the jingle of keys or his Dr Martens hitting the linoleum by the front door—Seonghwa lies awake, but all he is met with is silence.

What a fucking bittersweet bouquet of misery this all is.

Seonghwa isn’t sure what it is that makes him realise he wants more than all of this.

One day he gets up, earlier than he had been recently as he was filming personal content at the company later that morning, to find Hongjoong curled up on the couch underneath an old patchwork quilt. It was Mingi’s—his mother had made it for him upon moving out from home years ago when he became a trainee—but it had always just been draped along the back of the couch. In their old place, it was slung over the arm of the couch, a much smaller, much less accommodating one, and now in their nicer apartment, it spent most of its time either slung over someone’s lap, on the back pressed to the wall, or, like now, tucked gently up around Hongjoong’s body.

No one else was awake, aside from Jongho who was working silently at the dining table—he had recently signed up for part time classes online in digital marketing, and, for some reason unbeknownst to any of the members, he enrolled in early morning classes. Jongho ignored him, though Seonghwa hadn’t even bothered interacting with him in the first place, knowing it was best to pretend he wasn’t there to allow him to focus on his lecturer, but did make him another coffee in silence and placed it beside him, out of view of the webcam.

Hongjoong’s boots were scattered along the entranceway, ignorant of the empty spot for them on the shoe rack a mere metre away from their negligently discarded placement, but Seonghwa doesn’t mind. He picks them up and arranges them neatly on the shelving, throws the socks into the clothes basket tucked away in the small laundry room off the kitchen, and disposes of the disposable coffee cups spilling from the top of his unzipped bag in the entryway.

As Seonghwa quietly empties the dishwasher, he considers how different things would be if Hongjoong was home all the time, if this was part of his daily routine.

He thinks about Hongjoong’s peaceful, child-like sleeping form, the serenity and calmness on his face as he sleeps on the couch, face buried in a decorative cushion that couldn’t be as comfortable as he was making it look; thinks about holding up his clenched hand and kissing the very centre of it, feeling the tickle of his palm against his weary lips; about magic and heroism, and how they too often overlap in unimaginable ways, but also how Hongjoong seems to encompass both. He thinks about how warm he must be under the quilt and how if his hardworking hands were this soft, then how soft was the rest of him?

Seonghwa thinks about wrapping his arms around Hongjoong’s frail form and holding him close as he washes bergamot and cedar from his hair, doubts Hongjoong would even let him. There’s a polaroid Seonghwa had taken of him, unsuspectingly, pinned to the wall beside his head. It’s positioned in a way that means when Seonghwa lies in bed at night, still hopeful for Hongjoong to come home despite the many nights that he never does, he can see the perfect outline of Hongjoong’s profile, the pull of his lips as he laughs at something the waitress was saying to them at this 24-hour noodle place several months, if not a year, back.

Seonghwa remembers feeling invincible that night, because Hongjoong had smiled across the table at him and said they were best friends and gave him a one-armed cuddle back at the dorm in gratitude for dinner. Seonghwa would do just about anything to feel that level of affection and happiness and freedom again, within the arms of a Kim Hongjoong whose affection was given out so sparingly that he questions whether any of the love he’s experienced from him was ever even real in the first place.

That is why, when he leaves the shower and finds the couch empty and Hongjoong’s bag and shoes already gone, he knows that something has got to change—there has got to be more than this.

It starts small—because Seonghwa doesn’t know how to rush into things without first giving it considerable thought. He contemplates and plans and initiates as though he were someone trying to secure an interdepartmental marketing deal.

He congregates all his thoughts about Hongjoong and tries securing them all in one place, only realising at the end of his attempted organisation that this meant everything was kept in one compartmentalised box; everything that was not directly about their feisty little leader was, in some way or another, indirectly about or to do with him. This was less of a startling realisation than it was a revolutionising one; the revelation that Hongjoong had infested and made up more parts of him than he had first realised or had been willing to believe.

An infectious _tick, tick, tick_ of a meter and a rhythm Seonghwa can’t quite get his head around; a subtle ebb and flow of meaning within words that sprout stems and blooms smelling like stolen bergamot and cedar in distant, faded wisps. He feels lightheaded even thinking about the distance he must run to smell that fragrance in full, but he doesn’t hesitate to take the first step—not anymore.

It starts with food. Or, really, it starts with the lack thereof.

No matter good Hongjoong is at music production and art and everything in between, he is not, in fact, good at _lying._

In the brief moments they get to speak of things outside of work—in between photoshoots or interviews—Hongjoong tells him that, _yes_ , he is eating regularly, but the flickering of his eyes and awkward shifting of his hands indicates otherwise. Hongjoong is admittedly very small—petite enough to fit into one of Seonghwa’s hands, he’s sure—so Seonghwa can’t tell if that sunken look in his cheeks has always been there or of it’s yet another side effect of Hongjoong overworking himself.

Even so, Seonghwa starts with _food._ The delivery of food, to be exact.

Seonghwa hasn’t ever been the greatest cook, struggles to follow even the most basic of recipes, so he puts in a request with one of their youngest to pack up leftovers in microwavable containers for their leader. Wooyoung doesn’t question it, and for once just does as he’s told without protest, because the prospect of Seonghwa delivering Hongjoong food while he works at the company isn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility, nor is it something that seems to break largely away from the idea of what is considered to be normal for them. It is so uninspiring, in fact, him delivering food, that none of the members question it when he tells them where he’s headed that night after all of them had eaten and the dishes had been stacked away in the dishwasher.

Seonghwa’s lips tug down a little at the edges but he rugs up with a fluffy coat and scarf and tugs his mask up around his face, doing very little to keep him warm but working very well to hide his barefacedness. He takes a taxi, because it’s easier than waiting around for a manager and it’s late and he doesn’t like disturbing them when he can avoid it. It’s nine o’clock at night and his skin itches where his bracelet feels tight around his wrist. He fidgets the entire car ride, barely thirty minutes with this level of traffic, and he doesn’t understand the initial panic he feels buzzing into the company—it’s not a job interview and it’s not like he’s going to confess to him, but even if he was, what would he even _confess_? There’s nothing _too_ confess.

His palms feel slippery with sweat where they clutch at the food container and his head spins. He heats it in the kitchen—glass noodles, not too spicy as per request, with lots of tender pork and vegetables. On his way out, Seonghwa had snatched the last bottle of caffeine-free iced tea from the fridge, so he decants it into a glass with some ice as the food warms in the microwave. When it’s ready, he carries it slowly to Hongjoong’s studio—nervous energy fuelling his movements, more so when he gets to the studio door and can hear muffled conversation.

Like Hongjoong, Eden stays back late more often than not, however even Eden has stronger restraint and more self-discipline than Hongjoong. Admittedly, Eden also feels like he has less to prove: he’s an industry senior with more experience under his belt than any of them combined, so whether he works seven days or two days a week, at home or in the studio, it doesn’t make much difference so long as the album sells better than the one before it had.

Seonghwa doesn’t know the passcode for his studio, not for lack of interest or inquiry, but because Hongjoong was neglectful in telling any of them. Not that he didn’t want them to know it, but rather it was implied that it was his safe space, his place of separate work, and while truthfully, he wouldn’t _mind_ people visiting him, he didn’t want someone as the likes of say, _Wooyoung_ , bombarding this space every day.

Before he can think too much of it, Seonghwa raises his hand to knock and moments later Eden is opening the studio door. He doesn’t look shocked, which Seonghwa chooses to ignore, and over his shoulder he can see Hongjoong—who _does_ look surprised—turned in his studio chair to look at him in the doorway.

“Hey, Seonghwa,” Eden smiles. “You’re here late?”

Seonghwa hums, watches the senior grab his jacket off the back of Hongjoong’s studio couch, almost lost in the pile of Hongjoong’s own discarded clothing items, before snatching his bag off the coat hook on the opposite wall.

“Don’t stay too late, Hong,” Eden advises and Seonghwa wholeheartedly agrees, and even though Hongjoong mumbles in understanding, Seonghwa knows he isn’t truly taking it to heart. Seonghwa tells Eden that he doesn’t need to go, that he’s just dropping something off, but Eden waves it off.

“It’s late, anyway, and I have fish to feed.” Within seconds, he’s slipping out the door and letting it shut quietly behind him, and Hongjoong is standing to push the pile of his clothes from the nearest end of the couch to the other.

Seonghwa takes it for the hint that it is and sits himself down, but he places the plate of hot food and the tea on the edge of Hongjoong’s desk before he does. Hongjoong cocks his head questioningly at him, as if he had never seen a plate of food before in his entire life, and Seonghwa thinks that judging by the sunken state of his cheeks and the thinness of his wrists, perhaps that were true.

“Wooyoung made it,” he explains, leaving out the ‘ _because I asked him to’_ for the sake of his embarrassment. “You need to eat more consistently, Hongjoong,” he adds when Hongjoong doesn’t move to touch it.

At his comment, Hongjoong hums—always humming, but never truly listening.

“We’re all worried, y’know? And the members miss you.”

Hongjoong smiles, a tiny, pretty little thing that forms deep little wrinkles around his eyes. “The kids will be fine. They say they miss me, then they get sick of me when I’m at home.”

Seonghwa hesitates, words on the tip of his tongue but his mind fighting against them. But he figures, what’s he got to lose? He’s said sappy things to Hongjoong before and all that it got him was a smack around the head or a jab in the kidneys—he could put up with that. It’s not like Hongjoong wouldn’t speak to him again.

“It’s not just the kids,” he eventually says, voice softer than before. Thankfully Hongjoong was still turned facing him, eyeing the food every so often. He must be hungry.

“W-what?” Hongjoong stutters, eyes snapping up from his desk to Seonghwa’s own, doing nothing to hide the surprise overwhelming the brown there.

Seonghwa swallows. “It’s not just the kids that miss you…I miss you, too Joong.”

He doesn’t get to see much of his reaction before Hongjoong’s tucking his chin and thus face out of sight, but Seonghwa doesn’t miss the pretty shade of pink dancing along his cheekbones, nor the way he bites onto his bottom lip to fight back a smile. Seonghwa wants to say that the smile almost looked _pleased._ He doesn’t respond, at least not with any words he understands, but he does make a breathy kind of grunt that resembled a huff, before he was mumbling unintelligibly under his breath. Seonghwa wanted to ask him to repeat himself but decided it didn’t really matter.

Hongjoong swivels around on his desk chair so he’s facing the monitors again, but thankfully he doesn’t ignore the food—he picks at it, albeit at a snail’s pace, and chews slowly as though so heavily distracted by the work in front of him he had forgotten what he was doing. Nonetheless, Seonghwa felt satisfied every time he took another mouthful. It made him feel useful, needed, _wanted._ He had served a purpose during a time in his working career where he had _none_ because his schedule included waking up and that was it.

By the time he’s finished, Seonghwa feels a little close to tears—there’s no way Hongjoong had eaten at all today if he finished it off entirely. Sure, Hongjoong _ate_ , but he was always a bit of a picky eater, and more of the type of person who would snack throughout the day rather than eat entire full meals. Given that, he got full easily, so sitting down and consuming a large bowl of protein and carbs and gluten and _nutrients_ beyond an iced coffee…Seonghwa felt overwhelmed with something he couldn’t quite place. It also reignited his desire to bring Hongjoong food, because he must have been _starving._

It was similar to pride, he thinks, but not quite the same. This was heavier on the back of his tongue and got caught up in his teeth, made his skin crawl and blister beneath excited, relieved hands, and the sense of weightlessness surrounding his shoulder and head was like a headache he never knew he had finally dissipating. He felt lighter than he ever had in his life, but also weighed down by something sitting on the tip of his tongue.

When Hongjoong had scraped the bowl clean, Seonghwa shot up from the couch as silently as he could, and, against his better judgement, wrapped his arms around Hongjoong’s neck and shoulders from behind. The leader yelped at the sudden intrusion, but immediately relaxed upon recognising Seonghwa’s jacket sleeves and the smell of his cologne. Seonghwa expects Hongjoong to shove him off, but instead, Hongjoong rests one of his hands atop Seonghwa’s own, where they’re laced together at the base of his throat. “Thank you, Hongjoong,” he whispers against him. Smiling, he buries his face into Hongjoong’s hair, but pulls away when he feels Hongjoong tapping him, letting out a little amused ‘ _alright, alright’._

Seonghwa packs up his belongings and shoves his scarf and coat back on, and before he can question his judgement, leans around Hongjoong’s desk and presses a feather-light kiss to the top of his cheek. It lasts all of two seconds, but within that time, the world stands still. Beneath his touch, Seonghwa can feel the way Hongjoong tenses—Hongjoong didn’t like skinship to begin with, and certainly not like _this._ But, Seonghwa had to show him his gratitude somehow, and he knew Hongjoong allowed it sometimes.

“Really, Joong,” he whispers, “thank you,” voice made up more of air than they were of actual words before he’s pulling away and leaving the studio. He doesn’t know where this boldness of his came from, but he hopes he has it forever. They never speak of the kiss and Seonghwa doesn’t try it again.

“Seonghwa,” Hongjoong says to him the next day when he turns up at his studio door again.

“You know you don’t have to bring me food, right? I can take care of myself, believe it or not,” he continues to explain, biting his bottom lip in something close to agony.

Seonghwa ignores the way it makes blood rush to the area, making the already plump sensory organs even plumper. He smiles, shifting a little on his feet in a way that brings them the tiniest bit closer together. Up this close, Seonghwa can count his eyelashes, losing count, but can also see the depth of the dark circles beneath his eyes.

“I know I don’t _have_ to, but I want to.” He hopes he sounds reassuring, but his head is a little fuzzy from being this close to him. “I can’t have you eat at home, and I’m not going to force you to be there,” he quickly adds when he sees Hongjoong go to protest or defend or apologise or _something_.

“If I can’t feed you at home, I at least want to know that you’re eating here, just this one meal. Let me…let me have _this_ , please, Joong?”

Hongjoong eyes him carefully, the doubt still there but not quite so prevalent as it was mere seconds earlier. Then, with a resigned sigh, he steps aside, allowing the elder to enter the room eagerly.

All the times Seonghwa has delivered Hongjoong food—courtesy of Wooyoung, _bless him_ —he’s just sat it on Hongjoong’s desk and left the way he had come. Hongjoong never looked angry or annoyed to see him, and whenever Seonghwa knocked on his studio door at roughly eight o’clock each night, Hongjoong would wordlessly let him in.

He’d let Seonghwa dote on him for a little—ask if he had been drinking water, if he’d been taking breaks, if he had gotten some fresh air. He’d sit there and eat whatever hot meal Wooyoung had prepared for him while Seonghwa pottered around the studio folding up Hongjoong’s pile of clothes on the couch while removing the ones that most definitely needed to be washed, stacking up the dirty mugs and plates and throwing away the various takeout and snack wrappers.

By the time Seonghwa had tidied the studio up to a standard that didn’t make his skin crawl, Hongjoong was finishing up the last of his dinner and draining the tall glass of water Seonghwa always made him drink while he was there. Then, Seonghwa would take _those_ dishes to the company kitchen and stack up _that_ dishwasher, before coming back to grab his jacket and bag before heading home.

Hongjoong would always say thank you and wave him goodbye— _cute, tiny hands_ —but never offered to walk him out or come home with him nor did he ever ask him to stay. Not that Seonghwa ever expected him too, of course; everything _just_ _like this_ was enough to still his racing heart.

But, just like the seasons and Hongjoong’s hair, it changes.

One day, when Seonghwa knocks, there’s a huff of annoyance from the other side. Seonghwa shrinks back, having never really been on the receiving end of such a noise, and is surprised that Hongjoong still opens the door.

“I _really_ need to just give you the code,” Hongjoong says before Seonghwa can even say hello, and he realises that the annoyed look on his face and in his voice wasn’t genuine, but rather laced with a special type of fondness and amusement reserved just for him.

The tension in Seonghwa’s shoulders fades away and Hongjoong snatches the carrier bag containing his dinner from his hands before he pads back to his desk silently in fluffy socked feet. Seonghwa snorts at the cute display of harmless entitlement but shuts the studio door behind him and gets to work.

He’s halfway through tidying the clothes on Hongjoong’s couch when something hits him in the back of the head. It’s soft and painless, though still enough of a surprise that he makes a little _yip_.

He turns around to find Hongjoong smiling prettily at him and follows his eyes down to the ground where a scrunched up post-it sits pathetically. Seonghwa figures its rubbish, along with all the other bits of crumbled paper and wrappers around the floor, so he goes to dispose of it with all the others—but Hongjoong’s _hisses_.

Seonghwa tugs backwards, smirking amusedly at the cat-like sound, before realising the fiery look in Hongjoong’s eyes was genuine. His eyes widen at the threatening sound, and goes to quickly uncrunch the post-it, careful not to rip it in his hurry. Scrawled onto it he finds six digits in Hongjoong’s neat handwriting.

“Uh,” Seonghwa says, recognising the numbers instantly. “Thank you?”

He’s confused, and Hongjoong rolls his eyes. “Do you know what it is?”

Seonghwa hesitates. Of _course,_ he does. Does Hongjoong think he’s stupid?

“It’s...my birthday?”

Hongjoong’s cheeks flood a violent shade of red and his mouth opens and closes like a cartoon fish from a children’s commercial Seonghwa vaguely recognises seeing on the subway the other week, before he’s snapping his head back to his monitors.

“It’s—for the door. It’s the code for the door.”

Hongjoong may be looking at his monitor—his programmes open on one and about eight stacked word documents on the other—but Seonghwa can tell he isn’t really working on any of it. His eyes are pointed downward at his keyboard and his back is tense and stiff, forcing all his attention into listening to Seonghwa. _To Seonghwa_ , who’s silent, feeling a bit like that cartoon fish himself what with the way he stands there all unable to breathe and shifting from foot to foot like he’s never existed on land until today.

“My…my _birthday_ is your passcode?”

There’s no response at first, but then Hongjoong is looking up from his keyboard to where Seonghwa still stands across the room. His cheeks are still that fiery shade of red, but there’s a spark of confidence in his eyes now that had not been there mere moments ago.

“Use it, will you? I’m sick of getting up to let you in,” he snaps, empty of any real threat, and turns back to his work.

Seonghwa stands there for a few more gobsmacked moments before he remembers how his numb legs actually work and says goodbye. It isn’t until he gets outside the company building and he’s met with a wall of icy cold air that he realises he hadn’t even properly tided Hongjoong’s studio after all, and he shouldn’t feel as pleased as he does at the idea of having to stay longer tomorrow.

He doesn’t fight the smile hidden beneath five layers of n95 carbon.

The first time he lets himself into the studio with the passcode, he feels high. Not that he’s ever _been_ high, but he imagines this is exactly what it feels like—if not better.

His tummy is filled with butterflies and his head is all cloudy and empty but in a way that makes him feel buzzed and loopy rather than deoxygenated and faint. Hongjoong doesn’t comment on it and it is as if nothing else in their unspoken routine changes. Seonghwa continues to tidy and fold and throw away, and Hongjoong continues to eat his dinner and drink his water.

Seonghwa leaves within twenty minutes with the comforting knowledge that he’ll repeat it all again tomorrow. He sleeps easy, knowing he has a purpose that extends beyond just a friend and bandmate to Hongjoong.

Then, it changes again—or, maybe _it_ doesn’t, but _they_ do.

A week later, Seonghwa lets himself into the studio as usual. With his _AirPods_ in, he hadn’t heard the congregation of company seniors in the studio along with his leader, so he stumbles over his step when he pushes into the room. He’s so startled, in fact, that he doesn’t even think to stop his music, just staring at the four people, familiar they may be, crammed onto the admittedly very small couch.

They look just as startled as he feels, and Hongjoong greets him as he always does, as though nothing were out of the ordinary. He’s out of his chair and grabbing the bag of food out of his hands, and Seonghwa lets him without any restraint. He forces his mouth closed and greets his seniors, Eden on the back end of the couch smirking at him with something in his eyes that makes Seonghwa’s insides shift and tumble and roll.

Normally, this would be the time Seonghwa would fold up the accumulation of Hongjoong’s clothes that had made their home on the worn leather, but with the couch occupied, he definitely couldn’t. He was by no means _uncomfortable_ around them—he had known them for almost the same time he had Hongjoong, but this was different. As much as it was something Seonghwa would love to delve into, he was, by no means, a producer or songwriter or anything on their level, and he didn’t want to invade in on this space the company had created for them.

“How come _Hongjoong_ gets free food delivery, but your _Hyung’s_ don’t?” Madoxx jokes, and there are a few whoops and laughs from the rowdy bunch, and Eden mumbles something about ‘favouritism’. Hongjoong is throwing a piece of rolled up paper at them from across the room, and Seonghwa’s face feels like it’s on fire.

He feels a little panicked, actually. He rarely every feels this level of uncertainty, stemming what he thinks was from ‘friends’ in school joking around with him, only to reveal in the end that they were, in fact, actually just making fun of him. He’s faced his fair share of bullies and assholes in his short time, and while the logical part of knows these people genuinely _are_ his friends, logic doesn’t always come away first each time. Seonghwa forces himself to smile through their continued teasing, about how whipped Hongjoong as, how even more so Seonghwa was, about friendship perks and secret relationships and it’s that last comment that has Hongjoong darting across the room from his desk in a surprise attack.

The room is filled with shrieking and swearing not dislike their own dorm, and while the five of them are all distracted, Seonghwa makes an escape. He’s halfway down the hall towards the elevator when a door open and closes behind him.

“ _Yah_! Seonghwa!”

Seonghwa turns at the sound of Hongjoong’s voice, finding him briskly closing the distance between them in the hall, still wearing his fluffy bed socks and looking concerned. Seonghwa feels a little guilty for leaving without even saying goodbye, but his cheeks had been so red he felt like he was physically going to catch on fire and destroy everything around him and seeing the level of embarrassment Hongjoong felt at the prospect of the two of them dating made Seonghwa feel something he never had before. He couldn’t identify what the emotion or larger overall feeling _was_ , but it was unpleasant and Seonghwa knew he had to just get out of there—for both of their sakes.

As if he were reading his mind, Hongjoong glances up at him through impossibly long lashes, eyes already demanding answers well before his tongue could.

“I—” Seonghwa starts, stops, swallows around a dry, painful lump in the back of his throat before starting again. “I’m sorry if I—if I embarrassed you.”

It takes a second for Hongjoong to both register and process his words, but when it all seems to click together in his head, he jerks backwards, shock written across his small, delicate features.

“ _Embarrassed_ me? Why would you have embarrassed me?” He sounds so genuinely appalled at the indirect accusation that Seonghwa feels ashamed for even thinking it, let alone saying it.

“I just—”

Hongjoong’s hands, which had been resting stationary at his side, are suddenly moving. One rests on his shoulder, a stern and authoritative grip that sucks the air of his lungs just a little bit, while the other grips his waist within a remarkably gentle hold—so gentle, that Seonghwa had to glance down at their connected bodies to even confirm his hand had even been placed there. It was. Hongjoong made no move to remove it, either.

Seonghwa purred internally at the heat radiating off of it through the thin layer of his sleep shirt. He can feel and hear the dryness of his gulp, half caught in his throat, his words made up more of air than his actual voice.

“Your friends—I just turned up and—” He stops himself, unsure of how to word anything anymore.

His eyes are diverted away from Hongjoong’s, staring at the way their feet are arranged on the company carpet, reminiscent of its accounting office days, rock hard and easy to clean. It’s a dark blue, not quite a navy but a poor man’s rendition of it and Seonghwa guesses the interior designer thought that it was close enough.

He doesn’t know what to say—or rather, he _does_ , but he doesn’t know how to get it out past pursed, hesitant lips. Amusement suddenly laces in around the shock on Hongjoong’s face, as if the realisation of everything going on in Seonghwa’s mind had rushed into his like an oncoming tide.

The hand on his shoulder slips down his arm to curl around his wrist, while the hand resting on his waist tightens its grip ever so slightly. Imperceptible to the watching eye, but to Seonghwa, who breathes off of the delicate touch of his leader, of his best friend, it’s a movement as significant as a tectonic event. The hand on his wrist tugs him forwards and Seonghwa stumbles over his feet, unsuspecting.

His hands come up to steady himself and they rest just above Hongjoong’s pecs—they were always kept hidden beneath his oversized jumpers or reformed jackets, only showing themselves when he wore a thin, well-fitted t-shirt. Seonghwa had seen them, obviously, they were roommates after all, and it wasn’t like they were shy about their bodies around each other—especially not after so many world tours and quick changes needed backstage. But, even still, no level of comfort between them meant that ogling at your best friends naked chest was acceptable, especially not without consent, and that most certainly wasn’t something Seonghwa had ever asked Hongjoong permission to do, so—Seonghwa had never really, truly, felt the strength beneath Hongjoong’s chest: until now.

He _was_ small, and no matter how much Hongjoong pretended to hate being reminded of that fact, he was in no position to ever deny it. He _was_ small, a petite little thing, though that did not erase his hours of hard work at the gym nor did it deny the impact his profession had on his physique. While San was broad in shoulders and nipped at the waist and legs, Hongjoong was left large everywhere.

Beneath his hands, Seonghwa felt the strength of everything within him, and despite being nearly a head taller, Seonghwa felt dainty in his arms.

He had butterflies in his tummy threatening to slip free, and he quickly slid his hands up further, so they rested just in front of his shoulders instead.

“I could never be embarrassed of you,” Hongjoong suddenly said, and a second later he pulled a face. “I lied. I’m always embarrassed of you, but never because of something like _this_ ,” he explained, the amusement that had been present on his face just moments earlier had now trickled down into his words, a jovial sense of teasing laced into his tone.

Seonghwa must look hesitant to believe his words, because Hongjoong sighs before him.

“You’re a dork. A fucking _loser_ , if you will—but I’ve never felt _genuinely_ embarrassed of you before. Seonghwa,” Hongjoong says, his tone becoming quite serious by the end of his sentence, “you’re my best friend. I could never be embarrassed by you turning up to feed me, and definitely not in front of my friends. If anything, it makes me _proud_ …makes me feel, I dunno’, _special_. Like you’ve taken the time out of _your_ day to make sure I don’t fuck up mine. What’s there to be embarrassed about?”

Seonghwa considers his words with a bit of a watery gaze, a dark ocean of ebbing misery but slow flowing understanding. He takes a step back at the same time he inhales, a choked-off sound filling his lungs in a painful heave.

“I—I should go, anyway,” explains, but Hongjoong just reels him back in.

“No! Come eat—you brought food, eat with me!”

He shakes his head again, ready to start protesting, but Hongjoong just tugs him even closer, closer than before, and his hands inadvertently slide in a loop around to the back of his neck, their noses brushing together in a delicate brush. Seonghwa’s breath gets caught at the same time Hongjoong’s does and the air feels suffocating between and around them.

It’s never been something he’s ever truly thought that much about, kissing Hongjoong—or kissing anyone, really. He knows it’s something he _wants_ to do, and do so regularly, because the idea of being held affectionately within someone’s arms and treated with a gentle care is enough to bring Seonghwa to tears sometimes. Like this, however, Seonghwa had never spent much time to ponder its possibility—not because he didn’t _want_ to kiss Hongjoong, but because thinking about it made it all too real, all too invasive, all too…possible. He could very simply lean forward and kiss him; let their noses brush together and hold his face in his hands and kiss him deeply and thoroughly until Hongjoong was gasping in his arms. But he couldn’t, and he _wouldn’t_ , because Hongjoong was his _best friend_ and his leader and they were in a band together. He had to decide what he wanted more: a kiss from Hongjoong, or eternity with him? Seonghwa knew the answer.

For a brief moment, Seonghwa contemplates the idea of Hongjoong being able to read or hear his thoughts. His cheeks feel even hotter at the possibility, knowing that they were already an alarming shade of red at being held within Hongjoong’s arms like this. They’ve hugged before, so they’ve been this close to each other, but this was strung out and prolonged and unlike any hug they had ever shared before. He felt dizzy, like he was running out of air, and he wondered what Hongjoong’s hair would feel like if he curled his hands through it right now, dragged his mouth down, tilted Hongjoong’s jaw up—

“C’mon, Seonghwa,” Hongjoong suddenly says, breath rushing over his face. It drags Seonghwa out of his headspace, away from his dangerous and invasive thoughts. Hongjoong untangles their bodies, but keeps his hand wrapped around one of Seonghwa’s wrists. With a gentle tug, they’re both heading back towards the studio, and something in his gut flutters at watching Hongjoong punch in his birthday to open the door.

Back in the studio, he engages in small talk for a little with all of them, as to not be rude, but also because he _does_ genuinely like them. Hongjoong asks about his day and after the members, but within ten minutes Seonghwa is inching towards the door again to make his departure. Eden no longer has that curious, yet all-too-knowing glint in his eye, but there’s still some of it in the corners of his mouth that have yet to tug back down.

Hongjoong must notice the way he wrings his hands together and pulls the strap of his bag up his shoulder a little higher, the way his hands fish around in his coat pockets for his AirPods that he had eventually removed, for his gloves.

Just as he’s about to say goodbye, Hongjoong rolls forward on his desk chair, hands snatching at the wrist closest to him. Seonghwa’s skin burns underneath his touch.

“ _Christ_ , Seonghwa, I told you to stay,” he says in a tone that Seonghwa wants to say sounds _pleading_.

There’s a general hum of consensus from the others before Hongjoong is tugging on his wrist once, twice, before Seonghwa makes an unattractive noise in the back of his throat while falling. He lands on Hongjoong’s lap sideways, his hip digging kind of painfully into Hongjoong’s own. Seonghwa’s face flushes red hot and burns at the same time Hongjoong’s hands find purchase on his waist, turning him with a strength Seonghwa had almost forgotten about till he was seated properly on his lap.

He’s sat on one thigh, both legs over the outside of it and his back pressed against his side. He’s facing outwards towards the rest of the room, which means he can’t hide how red his cheeks are. None of them make any comments on the situation, not even Eden, who teases all the members whenever he gets the chance, but they’re all smirking like they know something Seonghwa doesn’t.

Seonghwa sits uncomfortably for the most part, because he’s never sat on Hongjoong’s lap like this before, and he can’t bring himself to relax enough to enjoy it. At least, not while there’s four industry seniors watching him.

Hongjoong must be able to sense how tense he is, so one of his hands that was resting on the side of his waist slides forwards, further around his middle, till it sat warm and heavy on his navel. Beneath him, Hongjoong shifts, adjusting him slightly higher on his lap and rotating him the tiniest bit so when he tugs him backwards with his hand, Seonghwa’s head tucks itself naturally into the junction of his neck and shoulder. The back of his head rests against Hongjoong’s collarbones, and Seonghwa thinks it should be uncomfortable, but Seonghwa isn’t blind to how toned the youngers chest has become in the past year or so.

It’s a rather pleasant feeling, actually, being this close to him. They’ve cuddled and slept together before, but never quite so intentionally as this—not with so much definitive purpose and intention. Laid back in this way, Seonghwa feels just as exposed to the small audience as before, but with the way the tension floods from his shoulders and back at finally being comfortable, he can feel the wiry threads of anxiety start to dissipate through his fingertips.

The hand on his tummy remains there, and Seonghwa ignores the way Hongjoong’s thumb rubs back and forth atop his t-shirt mindlessly, ignores the way his skin tingles beneath the touch. He tries focusing on their conversation instead, but finds himself drifting away into his thoughts every time he tries to listen in. Soon, he’s melting ever further into Hongjoong’s hold, head turning the tiniest bit sideways so he can rest his head more comfortably against his shoulder and chest.

He’s drowsy, feels the strong pull of sleepiness atop his eyelids, like an anchor in the sea that the waves have tried resisting, but it ploughs on through regardless.

Seonghwa is aware of their voices, can pick up the keywords but then they’re gone from his memory in the next second. The thumb on his tummy is still tracing little patterns, and the other hand gripping his waist starts to grip even harder. He feels heavy and slow and a little sluggish but curling into the warmth beneath him makes him feel lightheaded in an unfamiliar yet still pleasant way.

Seonghwa must fall asleep, because the next thing he’s aware of is the feeling of movement—of like _he’s_ moving. His eyes flutter open and the couch is empty, and though he hears himself whimper, he doesn’t remember allowing himself to make it. Hongjoong holds him close with both hands as he turns the seat back away from the couch to the monitors.

At hearing him, Hongjoong makes a sound close to a _coo_ , but shushes him in the next moment. He taps his tummy with his hand when Seonghwa flinches away from the brightness of his computer screens. Hongjoong makes another coo, a sound of acknowledgement, before Seonghwa feels himself moving again.

He’s half in and out of sleep, but he’s alert enough to know that Hongjoong is flipping his legs around, so instead of falling outside of Hongjoong’s thigh, they fall on the inside. Hongjoong has to spread his legs a little further to accommodate Seonghwa, but the leather chair Hongjoong uses is large enough, and the owner small enough, for the addition.

Hongjoong moves him easily around his lap with an ease that makes something flutter in Seonghwa’s stomach. Hongjoong might be small, but the way he’s manoeuvring and handling Seonghwa right now makes him think otherwise. Soon, Hongjoong stills his movements again, and Seonghwa hums.

Rather than facing outwards now, Seonghwa’s entire body is curled inwards, his chest pressed closely against Hongjoong’s. Seonghwa tightens his arms where they’re wrapped around his neck, allowing him to press closer into his throat. Hongjoong’s left arm is around his body, securing him place, while tapping away on the keyboard. The other is on the mouse, and his eyes are fixated not on Seonghwa and the unfamiliarity of their position, but on the various programmes and screens and notebooks spread out in front of him.

Something about his lack of acknowledgement over the situation makes Seonghwa feel giddy—as if the affection and skinship, something Hongjoong didn’t often engage himself in, was so uninteresting to him that it didn’t even interrupt his workflow. Seonghwa felt like… _part_ of the workflow, rather than just someone out the outsides looking in and observing. He felt physically moulded into Hongjoong’s side, part of his body almost. He felt at _home_ here.

Seonghwa shifted once more on his lap, getting even closer, his eyes slipping shut. He falls into that headspace again pretty quickly, the fire on his face from earlier long gone, no traces of embarrassment or surprise left anywhere in his body, instead replaced by calmness and tranquil and a warm sense of safety. In his drifting, sleepy state, he can hear Hongjoong recording himself rapping and singing, can hear him replay and repeat and rearrange the same line of music over and over again. It’s comforting, the routine he goes through, and Seonghwa loves the sound of his voice now as much as he always does, if not more.

At some point, Seonghwa pushes his nose further into Hongjoong’s neck. The arm around him tightens, and he feels Hongjoong press his cheek against the top of his head just briefly before it lifts off again. Seonghwa presses even closer, chasing after the faint scent he can almost taste—he can’t quite place it, but it’s thick like honey and deep like musk, and it makes him feel dizzy.

“Mmm,” he hears himself mumble, dragging his nose against his neck again, before settling it at the base of his throat, right above the dip in his collarbones.

“Hm?” Hongjoong asks, and Seonghwa thinks he’s sounds a little breathless, but he could be imagining it.

“You smell good,” Seonghwa says against his skin, eyes blinking open blearily. He closes them again against the harsh computer lighting. Against him, he feels and hears Hongjoong choke, before huffing humourlessly.

“What do I smell of? Like day old, cramped studio and the potato I ate for dinner?”

Hongjoong laughs at his own comment, but Seonghwa shakes his head against him, pulling his head away from his neck to look at his face. They’re close together like this, and when Hongjoong turns to face him their noses almost touch. There’s a pretty shade of pink dusting Hongjoong’s cheeks that Seonghwa doesn’t think he’s ever really seen before, and he has the sudden desire to press his lips against one of them but is still aware enough to know not too.

“No,” Seonghwa says, sees the way Hongjoong’s deep eyes, framed by beautiful lashes, flicker from his mouth to his own eyes and down to the way he’s curled up, cat-like, on is lap.

“You smell like Hongjoong,” he explains, tucking himself back down into his neck. “You smell like _home_.”

Seonghwa doesn’t remember much else after that, quickly falling back asleep, but he does remember feeling Hongjoong’s cheek resting against his hair, a slow back and forth rocking motion, and something soft and delicate pressing against his exposed temple that he was much too tired to try identifying.

One day, when Seonghwa turns the corner towards Hongjoong’s studio, he nearly runs into Eden. He quickly apologises, the elder waving him off. He’s about to slip past to the door just down the hall he can see in his periphery, when Eden narrows his eyes at him and smirks playfully. Seonghwa swallows audibly.

“So,” Eden starts, crossing his arms across his chest, “you know Hongjoong’s studio passcode?”

It wasn’t a question, but Eden definitely made it _sound_ like one.

Seonghwa nods, “yes?”

Eden seems to ponder this for a moment, before letting out a small laugh, disbelieving. “Well shit, then,” he eventually says.

Seonghwa cocks his head to the side, confused. “What?”

The senior laughs again, dropping his crossed arms, the façade disappearing. “It’s a first, that’s all. Hongjoong doesn’t let anyone know his passcode,” Seonghwa’s eyebrows raise slightly. “Not even _I_ know it,” he continues.

This is surprising. Obviously, Seonghwa knew that most people didn’t know the code, though that was more for privacy than anything else. Hongjoong’s studio was his safe space and it meant as much to him as his privacy at home did.

Before Seonghwa can say anything, Eden is stepping around him. “I mean, I guess it isn’t all that surprising. It is _you_ , after all.”

He’s halfway down the hall when Seonghwa finds his voice, calling out after him. “What does that mean?”

Eden snorts the way he always does at this type of thing but doesn’t bother turning to face him. “It means that if anyone is gonna’ know it, of course it’d be you!”

Seonghwa forces himself not to think too deeply about what any of that means.

It’s not that the lap-sitting becomes an everyday thing, but it becomes a ‘whenever Hongjoong’s friends are visiting’ thing, which is to say: it happens three or four times a week.

Hongjoong had joked about it being a response to the fact there were no extra seats for Seonghwa, but one night, when Eden wasn’t able to make it, there was plenty of room for him on the couch—but Hongjoong had still tugged him down onto his lap. Seonghwa didn’t want to think too much about it, but he loved being held by the younger man; his arms were strong yet still soft, and so, _so_ warm.

Whenever he’s in his arms, Seonghwa just _melts._

He was awkward at first, stiff and uncomfortable on the youngers lap, once again wondering if their leader was eating enough given how bony his thighs felt beneath him. But then, as time passed, it became familiar enough that he didn’t startle when Hongjoong yanked him down towards him. It got so common, in fact, that Seonghwa would greet everyone, sit his bag down, and then lower himself into Hongjoong’s already open arms—he didn’t need to be pulled down anymore.

Hongjoong would always rest his hands either high up on his hips or on his waist, as if worried he’ll slip off, and lean his face around Seonghwa’s shoulder to say hello. Like that, their faces were always pressed together, though this was one thing that Seonghwa couldn’t get used too—being so close, but not doing anything _with_ it.

He can tell Hongjoong felt much of the same as Seonghwa had by the way he was just as tense beneath him, but then the younger would reach up with his spare hand and curl it around the nape of Seonghwa’s neck. He would drag it up carefully, with a slow, practiced hand, distracted by his own work in front of him. He can see the way the cursor moves rapidly around the programme screen, how without even looking at him, Seonghwa knows how concentrated Hongjoong is right now. So concentrated, in fact, that he must be unaware of the way he’s starting to scratch his painted nails against Seonghwa’s scalp.

Seonghwa would always feel his cheeks flush, and he’d tell himself that it wasn’t from embarrassment or whatever else, but rather that he was just overheating with the extra warmth radiating from behind him now. Seonghwa’s waist is small enough that with Hongjoong’s arm around him, the rapper can rest it against the spot just beneath his belly button. His shirt is baggy, folds of excess material separating his bare skin with Hongjoong’s hand, but even so, Seonghwa can feel the heat seeping through the cotton and his pulse thumping. He wonders briefly, dangerously, how hot Hongjoong’s palm would feel against him if there was no t-shirt in the way. He locks that thought, and anything else associated with it, away deep down inside him, before it can cause any real damage.

So, Seonghwa continues to sit in Hongjoong’s lap late into the evenings. His back will be facing the two monitors stacked on the large desk, and his face will be tucked into the junction where the smooth skin of Hongjoong’s neck meets his unsuspectingly broad shoulders.

In almost every physical way, Hongjoong is smaller than Seonghwa—he’s shorter, has a smaller waist, his thighs are thinner and his hands smooth and tiny—but like this, in his arms and lap like _this,_ Seonghwa feels positively _tiny._ Hongjoong is this whole big thing, with his rap and his fashion and the way he just represents himself through his actions and movements and poetic-like tongue, and Seonghwa feels so consumed by all of it that he swears he’s drowning in it, and every time he opens his mouth to breathe, his lungs just fill with more and more of everything that he is and everything he’s yet to become.

Hongjoong will always have an arm around him to make sure he doesn’t roll off in his sleep, and the nights that Seonghwa heads home at a reasonable time to sleep, he finds himself lying awake, desperate not only for the sounds of keyboard clicks, but for Hongjoong’s warmth around him, too.

The lap sitting soon extends to even when Hongjoong is alone, with Seonghwa’s head tucked into the curve of Hongjoong’s neck, the younger nosing playfully at his hair and resting his cheek against his crown. Seonghwa feels at peace in the studio, like he belongs there, and he slowly starts to understand why Hongjoong has never really wanted to leave it in the first place.

Seonghwa has known Hongjoong for several years now, but in that time, never once has he looked inside his wallet.

If someone had asked, Seonghwa would say that Kim Hongjoong was his best friend—his first _proper_ best friend, but also the one he knows he’ll never have to replace. The other members are his best friends, too, of course they are, but there has always been something about Hongjoong and Seonghwa that made it feel more like _HongjoongandSeonghwa_ rather than two separate entities.

Both parties didn’t seem to mind this sense of closeness that was more through words and teasing and banter than it was affectionate touches and compliments as with Wooyoung and San, and, to a certain extent, Yunho and Mingi. They didn’t _need_ the same level of visual endearment the others did, but that didn’t mean it was non-existent between them. Especially recently, what with the lap sitting and the neck nuzzling and the whatever Hongjoong was doing with his hands on Seonghwa’s waist.

Fans joked about Hongjoong’s general distaste for Aegyo and skinship, and while it wasn’t entire untrue, it wasn’t as though he never engaged willingly in either of them. He played it up for the fans, though most idols did, and while he was more inclined to lean towards skinship to get what he wanted rather than aegyo, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility for Hongjoong to bat his eyelashes and pout to get his way.

Seonghwa, no matter who engaged in it, was a sucker for pleading little eyes and pouty lips—and Hongjoong, the _little shit_ , knew all about this.

He would coo and do this… _thing_ with his hands up by his face, and Seonghwa knew he was doomed and would do whatever Hongjoong asked just to get him to stop. Fans saw this as Seonghwa also not liking aegyo, or at least, not liking _Hongjoong’s_ interpretation of it; when, in fact, it was the complete opposite.

Seonghwa looked annoyed or angry or even _bothered_ by the leaders forced cute acts because it made his heart hurt, because it was adorable, because Kim Hongjoong wasn’t just this powerful leader changing the world but this powerful cute leader with pretty lips and soft skin and tiny, precious hands just perfect for holding.

But, even so, Seonghwa sometimes had doubts that Hongjoong considered _him_ his best friends.

He knew they were, the logical part of his brain told him that every time he questioned it, but logic didn’t always beat his anxiety, wherever the fuck that unwanted shit stems from with the brain, and when that battle was lost, Seonghwa felt replaceable to him. He’d never tell Hongjoong this, _of course_ not, because that would be something Hongjoong would feel immensely guilty for and would try repair something that wasn’t even broken to begin with and Seonghwa didn’t want or need that on either of their consciouses.

Now, however, this battle has returned with a different outcome—neither logic nor anxiety had won, but rather…the _truth_ had won.

Seonghwa had been lounging on Hongjoong’s studio couch for a few hours now, working through one of the English coursebooks their teacher had left them to work on, while the younger worked diligently on some new track Seonghwa had yet to hear. Eventually, Seonghwa’s stomach had rumbled, and he kicked the back of Hongjoong’s chair to get his attention. He hears him huff through his nose but pushes his headphones down off his ears and doesn’t even bother to swivel in his seat before he’s snatching his phone up.

From his position on the couch, Seonghwa can see him open the food delivery app that services this area best, and Seonghwa feels giddy at the way Hongjoong knows what he wants without even having to _look_ at him.

“From the usual place?” Hongjoong asks, though Seonghwa can see he’s already finalising the order.

“My card,” Hongjoong says, though it is more of a command than an actual question, and Seonghwa is immediately rummaging through Hongjoong’s bag for it. His hand tightens around Hongjoong’s wallet with little victory, and he realises what a milestone this is for him as he flips open the reformed leather wallet Hongjoong had always had the time Seonghwa had known him—give or take a few illustrations and studs.

Just as quickly as he had opened it, Seonghwa was flipping it closed with a gasp and chucking it across the small room and onto Hongjoong’s workspace. The leader jumps a little in his seat, makes a complaint, but opens it without a second thought and punches in his card details.

He announces something about forty-five minutes and busy Thursdays before he’s back to work, but Seonghwa isn’t really listening.

Seonghwa has never opened Hongjoong’s wallet—it wasn’t his, after all, and he’d had no reason to. Perhaps if he _had_ opened it, he would’ve seen what had been tucked into the empty licence pocket that he’d never seen before.

A photo.

A polaroid, to be exact, one he had never seen before nor had known to have been taken but was surely close to five years old now given the state of the hair.

There, tucked away into his wallet, right where he’d always see it whenever it was opened, was a photo of Seonghwa, fast asleep on the practice room couch using Hongjoong’s sweater as a pillow. Seonghwa’s heart feels so full of something he can’t quite place, but he never doubts Hongjoong’s love for him from that day forward.

It _started_ with food, but it didn’t end with it.

When their drama starts to air on TV, Seonghwa doesn’t even need to ask Hongjoong to be there for it—by the time he gets out of the shower and into his pyjamas that night, Hongjoong is already curled up on the couch waiting. The others also start to pile in as the airtime nears, and by the time the first scene starts, Hongjoong and Seonghwa are pressed closely together on the couch.

Seonghwa tries to pay attention—admittedly, the rest of them had seen the first episode a few days prior, but it was more exciting seeing it with the others who weren’t involved—but he keeps getting distracted by the way Hongjoong presses impossibly closer as the drama ticks by.

At the other end of the couch, Yeosang is seated beside Jongho. He’s holding onto his forearm the entire time and he shakes it wildly whenever their youngest appears on screen. Seonghwa thinks Jongho actually looks a little uncomfortable every time he does, as if it was mildly painful, but it’s _Yeosang_ , and this is Jongho, so he doesn’t make any move to stop him.

Wooyoung, San and Yunho are cuddled on the opposite side of Seonghwa, with Mingi draped along them his with his feet resting on Seonghwa’s lap. Throughout the episode, Hongjoong makes a lot of comments—mostly noises of excitement whenever the members appear on screen.

There’s one scene which even Seonghwa feels embarrassed watching, which includes a slow-motioned type zoom-in of his face, sweaty from practice, and it’s a little alarming how _real_ it looks: his hair is styled differently in the drama than he would normally wear it in real life, but he actually _does_ that sweaty after practice. Against him, Hongjoong tenses, and makes a choked-up nose when actor-Seonghwa lifts the collar of his shirt to wipe sweat from his forehead, his tongue poking out to lick his lips.

Seonghwa flushes when the others whistle and tease but doesn’t miss the way Hongjoong doesn’t say a single thing about it or how he doesn’t relax for the rest against him for the remainder of the episode. 

Each night a new episode airs, Hongjoong inches closer to Seonghwa on the couch. The movements are gradual, like a kitten growing into its adult form, only realising how much it has changed until you look back at what it used to be like. When the drama is in its final episodes, Seonghwa comes to the realisation that Hongjoong is lying fully on his lap.

Seonghwa doesn’t know when it first happened, but at some stage along the way, Mingi was no longer allowed to rest his feet on Seonghwa’s lap, because that was _Hongjoong’s_ spot. It went from awkward, hesitant lap-laying to Seonghwa dragging his fingernails across Hongjoong’s scalp, through the tangled ends. Hongjoong often fell asleep like that, insisting that he hadn’t, but anytime Seonghwa asked about the episode, he miraculously couldn’t recall what had transpired.

But, even so, he was always the first waiting on the couch for the episode to start, and always the first to want to replay it.

Anytime Seonghwa was on screen, he was smacking his hand backwards against Seonghwa’s chest, as if he still couldn’t believe it was really happening and Seonghwa was really _there._ He treated it as though it weren’t this mid-budget pg13 family drama aired at seven o’clock twice a week, and was instead a record-breaking, world-changing, tectonic-plate shifting noir-esque series that would send the four of them to astronomical new heights.

It had the potential to, at least within the realm of Korean television, but there was something entirely overwhelming and all-too flattering with the way Kim Hongjoong treated it like it were Hollywood. The _overreaction_ , of sorts, the overwhelming hype; the way he screamed and yelled and forced the four of them to bow at the end of each episode; the way Hongjoong was home early for two nights a week now and _stayed home_ , slipping into bed at the same time Seonghwa himself did.

Hongjoong made them all feel special; Hongjoong made Seonghwa feel _special._

Better yet, Hongjoong made Seonghwa feel like one of his poetry books—like he was this whole magical, inspiring _massive_ thing, capable of changing perspective and exciting change, instead of the actual reason, of Hongjoong’s unmatched talent and dedication to his craft, fuelled by a lack of sleep and dehydration and coffee without sugar, all to the rhythm of an iambic pentameter only Hongjoong can seem to hear. The rest just falls on deaf ears.

When the drama finishes and their schedule eases back into comeback preparations, Seonghwa finds Hongjoong home more often. This does usually happen whenever they are close to releasing an album, because their leader is professional enough to know that he needs enough sleep and to be home for their manager to come get them in the morning.

What he doesn’t realise, Seonghwa thinks, is how much better the apartment and group overall functions when he’s here. The younger members, painful as they may be, truly were like young children sometimes—asking Seonghwa where Hongjoong was, how long he was gonna’ be at work for, when was he coming home. They were like six toddlers begging for their absent father to tuck them into bed and read them a goodnight story, and Seonghwa was the other overworked, sometimes _overbearing_ parent that needed a good night’s rest.

Hongjoong, bless him, didn’t realise how much he was valued within their household until he was home more nights than he was away, and it wasn’t a rare occurrence for Seonghwa to stumble out of bed to find Hongjoong’s bunk empty but the couch full of the members curling up in Hongjoong’s space. Hongjoong, though both strict and playful with them, was gentle and caring, too. The affection and love he had for his members surpassed the awkward and uncomfortable position he found himself in whenever he was made to do aegyo or skinship.

Lately, Hongjoong felt comfortable pouting his lips and batting his eyelashes in order to get Choi San stop pulling Mingi’s hair and go the fuck to _bed_ , and he would squish his own face up and make the smallest, cutest little hand gestures to Wooyoung to make him cook the food he was craving.

Hongjoong being home more often also meant Seonghwa got the cuddles and affection he so often needed but had been deprived of from his leader. With the ice _sort of_ broken that night in the studio when Seonghwa had fallen asleep in his lap and the many nights curled up together watching the drama, Seonghwa felt fairly comfortable snuggling up with younger on the couch.

Despite being more comfortable around each other now than ever before—so much so that even the fans had started noticing, which, whenever was brought up, made Seonghwa stutter and cower and turn a violent shade of red—it was still not entirely common or _natural_ for one of them to go up to the other and plop themselves down in their lap demanding love, affection and cuddles outside of the studio. But there _was_ a first time for everything, Seonghwa supposed, and he sure as hell knew Hongjoong wasn’t going to be the one to break the ice.

One night, after the others were all in bed, Seonghwa finds himself jolting awake in bed—he doesn’t remember much of it, but his dream had been far from a pleasant one. Not quite a nightmare—at least, not one that had turned his skinny clammy or made his heart race enough that he’d awoken from it—but enough that there were a few drying tears on his cheeks and a slight tremor in his arms.

His phone tells him it isn’t that late—just a little after one in the morning—so he tip-toes out of bed to refill his empty water bottle on his bedside table, only to find Hongjoong’s top bunk empty. Part of him thinks that maybe the younger had gone to the studio, but upon entering the lounge with his water, finds him curled into a small ball on the couch.

One of his poetry books is on the floor, spine to the ceiling and opened at a random page. Seonghwa downs some water, refills it again, before lightly padding back into the lounge. He picks the book up and places it on the coffee table, taking Hongjoong’s dirty tea mug and popping it in the sink. He moves his shoes out of the way that Hongjoong must have kicked off in a hurry and while half-asleep and tucks them neatly to the side, so he doesn’t trip in the morning. Mingi’s blanket is tucked around him, his hands fisting the top of it close to his face.

Like this, Hongjoong looks far younger than he is—or maybe, he finally just looks his age. So often they all have to act and look a certain way, and it’s easy to forget how young they all are beneath layers of makeup and leather and designer jewellery. Seonghwa imagines that for Hongjoong it’s even harder to remember how youthful he genuinely is, what with being their main producer, their leader, and just being a perfectionist in general.

Seonghwa thinks Hongjoong is beautiful all the time, but like this—devoid of any makeup or stress or intense concentration—he is as gorgeous as he’ll ever be. Seonghwa was going to go back to bed now that the dryness in his throat had passed, but something about seeing Hongjoong curled up all comfy made his skin itch for… _something._

He inches closer to the couch, hesitant, on silent, socked feet, unsure of how to ask for what he wants. This close now, he can see the rise and fall of Hongjoong’s chest, can hear the tiny puffs of air lets out between puffy, parted lips, can see the smooth plane of his forehead, free of any stress wrinkles that are so often there when he’s working in his studio.

Before he can second guess himself, Seonghwa is reaching down to the edge of the blanket that exposes the tiniest sliver of his right hip and _tugs._

Given the tension of it in Hongjoong’s hands, it doesn’t budge, but there’s a tiny flicker of _something_ on Hongjoong’s face. He tugs again, another, and again, until he’s tugged an entirety of six times and Hongjoong’s eyes finally, _finally_ flicker open.

They don’t seem to register much at all at first, blinking blearily up into Seonghwa’s face peering down at him in the darkness. Seonghwa gives him a small smile, hand still curled around the edge of the blanket, which he tugs on again to reiterate. At the movement, Hongjoong seems to sober, and he smirks a little cheekily at him.

“Seonghwa, baby?” He whispers, voice thick from sleep, and Seonghwa can feel the tightening of his chest and the fluttering of wings in his tummy and the oxygen dissipating out of his brain.

_Baby, baby, baby._

God, _shit,_ Seonghwa loved being called that a little too much.

Seonghwa’s eyes, big and alert and cheeks red with need and something far deeper than plain old surface-level embarrassment, skirt around Hongjoong’s face and his teeth gnaw at his bottom lip. He can taste his own lip balm—vanilla and coconut—but it’s dominated by the bitter taste of dread at the back of his throat.

Hongjoong’s expression doesn’t change from that all too knowing fond one and he doesn’t move an inch beyond lowering the blanket draped up to his chest, down to his hips. Seonghwa thinks he’s going to have to explain himself—more than the tug on the blanket, which he thought was explanation enough—but then the tiniest of smiles slips back onto Hongjoong’s mouth, and Seonghwa feels his muscles ease.

Hongjoong grabs his wrist—the wrist of the hand that had started tugging for his attention—and _yanks_ , causing Seonghwa to yelp at the unexpected movement and at the force behind it. He stumbles, falls, but Hongjoong would never let him hurt himself from such a great height. Not now, not _ever._

Seonghwa lands half on top of Hongjoong, but he’s quickly maneuvered into a sideways lying position, with his head resting atop Hongjoong’s… _endowed_ chest, and hands framing it. Hongjoong keeps moving, seemingly well-coordinated for someone who had just been fast asleep and yanks the blanket around his hips to cover up Seonghwa, too. Something flutters deep in Seonghwa’s gut, and he’s familiar with his butterfly’s presence by now, somewhat a little protective of them, even, but chooses to keep swallowing them down as to avoid doing or saying something stupid.

He’s quickly caught up in his thoughts—thinking about blood tests and the speed at which a normal human heart should beat, because the heart beneath his ear right now seems far too quick to be natural; he thinks about poetry and his inability to create it himself, wonders if Hongjoong would think him still beautiful despite not being able to string a sentence together the same way Hongjoong would himself; thinks about spines and how Hongjoong’s must be sore and how second-hand books resemble him; Seonghwa thinks about lips and mouths and tongues and how nice it would be kiss Hongjoong to sleep.

He’s jolted out of his headspace and feels hot to the touch when Hongjoong’s thumb suddenly runs gently—so, _so_ gently—against his bottom lip; feels himself set alight when Hongjoong speaks, his breath fanning across his face.

“ _Pouty,”_ he whispers, “always so cute and _pouty_.”

He continues to brush his thumb back and forth along his lip, his other hand, still tucked beneath the blanket, resting on the small of Seonghwa’s back, holding him close to his side. Their legs are tangled together and despite Seonghwa being noticeably taller, even like this, Seonghwa feels swallowed by the size of everything Hongjoong has accumulated into.

Then, in a gesture that Seonghwa will question the truth and reality of for the remainder of his life, Hongjoong leans the tiniest bit forward, closing the already almost imperceptible gap between their faces on the couch, and presses his lips to his forehead.

“ _My baby_ ,” Hongjoong breathes out, words made up more of air than they were anything else; the words so faint that Seonghwa isn’t entirely confident he didn’t make them up. He feels himself reel back, shrink in onto himself, not because he doesn’t like it or hadn’t been expecting it, but because it was with that kiss that Seonghwa realised it’s what he had been craving and needing this entire time.

It was unbelievably soft, fireworks dancing beneath the surface of his forehead where they seem to linger. After the longest three seconds of his life, Hongjoong is pulling away, tucking Seonghwa’s face into his beck and resting his chin atop his head. Seonghwa already feels his body sinking into the couch and into everything that was Hongjoong, admires the smell of his lingering aftershave and bodywash, can feel the way his arms tighten around his back, pressing him impossibly closer than before.

Seonghwa nuzzles into his neck and lets his hands rest on his pectorals, fearful that when he wakes, all of this would have just been a perfect, wild dream.

He wakes to the sound of high-pitched giggling, a smack followed by a strangled groan of pain, and Hongjoong hissing out, “shut up, you little shit, you’ll wake him!”

Still tired, and slightly irritated at being woken up, he buries his head deeper into the soft pillow beneath him. He’s incredibly warm, more comfortable than he’s felt in a long time, and there’s a soothing motion rubbing up and down his spine in a ticklish sensation.

He hears another giggle, and he tries to push himself closer, sink deeper into his mattress, but is met with a hard and impenetrable resistance. He frowns, feels his bottom lip stick out, and brushes it against the cushion he’s pressed to.

The cushion, strangely, makes a choked-off kind of sound, like a huff of breath caught in the back of a throat, and Seonghwa tugs his head back. Eyes jerking open, he’s met with Hongjoong before him—beneath him.

Seonghwa’s face had been tucked into his neck—the thing preventing him from snuggling even deeper was the fact that he had skin and bone and arteries and _blood_ —and his hands are curled into his sleep shirt. His leg is thrown over one of Hongjoong’s and the blanket is a tangled mess around their feet. Seonghwa’s back is turned to the rest of the room, but he doesn’t need to turn to know that they’re being watched. He feels his cheeks catch on fire, can feel it spread to his ears and down his neck and to the very top of his chest.

Hongjoong’s spare hand that Seonghwa felt resting on his waist tugs very slightly, encouraging Seonghwa to sink deeper into him.

“Let him _sleep_ , would you?”

Seonghwa wants to protest, wants to get up and sort breakfast and do some laundry and work out with San, but he’s far too warm and far too comfortable right where he is.

As he drifts, he feels Hongjoong’s hand beneath his shirt, fingertips tracing aimless patterns up and down his spine.

They leave a fire in their wake.

The bunkbeds that occupy their dorms are by no means small, but they aren’t exactly large, either.

Wooyoung and San have somehow managed to make it work, claiming they were like one body anyway, so a king single mattress was more than enough space. Jongho and Yeosang pretended like that _didn’t_ make it work, but everyone knew in the past few months of Jongho sleeping in his bed, that Yeosang had been less restless. For Yunho and Mingi, the rest felt remotely upset for—they were the tallest and frankly some of the broadest, too, so managing to stay comfortable on single beds, much less _bunk_ beds, must be difficult most nights. They never seem to complain about it though, which means they’re either smaller than everyone realises or have it all figured out.

As for Hongjoong and Seonghwa, they never shared a bed—so their experiences were entirely different to everyone else’s in the dorm. Hongjoong had taken the top bunk to save Seonghwa, who _hated_ the top bunk, and slept on the couch to avoid waking Seonghwa up during his busy filming days. Now, with all that over and done with, Hongjoong was taking the time to actually sleep in his _bed_ for a change.

It was rare to hear him clamber up the little metal ladder at the end of the bed; rare to hear him deep in sleep when Seonghwa woke up in the morning, but now that it was happening more and more often, Seonghwa felt his heart expand and strengthen. He didn’t have to take dinners quite so often to the studio, but for three to four nights a week, Seonghwa spent most of his evenings perched on Hongjoong’s lap.

One night, however, Seonghwa is jolted awake by a shake on his shoulder. He grunts and tries to shove it off, but he’s met with resistance and a breathy little giggle. Fluttering his eyes open, his eyes meet with Hongjoong’s, whose head is illuminated by a subtle halo of moonlight that filters in through the roman blinds.

“Joong?” Seonghwa mumbles, voice thick with sleep, and it cracks a little embarrassingly at the end.

Hongjoong doesn’t comment on it, but instead lifts Seonghwa’s blanket aside and crawls onto the bed beside him, uninvited. Seonghwa doesn’t protest, merely just pushes himself backwards closer to the wall to accommodate the intrusion of space, and Hongjoong rummages around with the blankets before finally settling down. His back is to Seonghwa’s chest, his hands and legs tucked up so he’s almost in a tiny little ball in front of him. Seonghwa wants to coo at him, call him the little baby that he looks exactly like in his baggy t-shirt and boxers, but refrains himself from doing so.

Very hesitantly, and with the pace of a two-hundred-year-old tortoise, Seonghwa rests his hand on Hongjoong’s waist. The words _little spoon_ reverberates around his head and causes him to flush, but he pushes them away in favour of leaning up over Hongjoong’s body, so he could see his face. His eyes are closed, but he must still be awake, because they flutter open after a few seconds as if he could tell he was being watched. He scowls up at him, but the threat is empty.

“What do you want, Park Seonghwa?” He asks, a little snappy, as if he hadn’t just crawled into Seonghwa’s bed unannounced and taken up half the space and more than half the blankets. Had taken his heart too, but that was a whole other can of worms.

“Couldn’t sleep?” He asks, voice soft, sleep still lingering in all of his words.

Hongjoong pouts, then shrugs, “s’ cold.”

Something flutters in Seonghwa’s chest, something he can vaguely recognise in his half-asleep state as fondness. He felt _fondness_ for Hongjoong coming to _him_ when he was _cold_ and couldn’t sleep because of it. It felt like an ache deep in his bones finally being alleviated; an itch finally being scratched.

“Aww, Joongie,” he mocks, “you’re so cute, Joongie! Joongie, you’re so—”

“Alright,” Hongjoong suddenly says, trying to untangle himself from the blankets and Seonghwa’s arms, but Seonghwa only tightens his grip with a laugh.

In a moment of sleep-fuelled confidence, or perhaps sleep-fuelled idiocy, Seonghwa is reaching around their bodies again to press a wet kiss to Hongjoong’s cheek. He lets his lips linger there, tasting Hongjoong’s moisturiser and pore-shrinking rose water serum and something else, something far more natural and innately _Hongjoong_. When he pulls away, Hongjoong is slack in his arms and no longer resisting, and Seonghwa almost smugly runs his hand up Hongjoong’s side. He bites around a smirk as he rests his hand back on Hongjoong’s waist securely, and he knows tomorrow Seonghwa will question where all this boldness came from; but, for right now, he pulls Hongjoong closer to his chest, till the shorter is tucked up under his chin, and his back along the entire length of his body.

“What..what was that for?” Hongjoong asks, voice croaky. Seonghwa says nothing, just stares at the back of Hongjoong’s head.

“Goodnight, Hongjoong.” He’s met with silence, interrupted only by a curious little sound Hongjoong lets out, and their breathing.

“Goodnight, Hwa,” he says a few moments later, and Seonghwa falls asleep to the sound of the nickname echoing around his brain.

Hongjoong crawls into bed with him most nights now, even those where they’ve cuddled at the studio already. It ends up just the same: Hongjoong saying he’s cold when Seonghwa asks, tucking himself up into the elder’s arms, falling asleep with a kiss to his cheek that Seonghwa swears is just to shut him up.

Eventually though, neither of them needs to feel hesitant around each other, and Hongjoong will just settle himself into Seonghwa’s bed even before attempting to fall asleep in his own. Seonghwa just naturally sleeps closer to the wall now, and also keeps an extra blanket on the foot of the bed in case Hongjoong steals all of it (which he usually does) and Hongjoong just keeps his own pillow down there too, though he usually just ends up sharing Seonghwa’s.

Most nights, Hongjoong will fall asleep first, and Seonghwa will play with the back of his hair exposed to him, humming non-existent little tunes and kissing tiny little pecks to his nape. The mornings are surprisingly never awkward, because Seonghwa always rises first lately, and manoeuvres Hongjoong in a way that allows him to keep sleeping while Seonghwa showers and sorts coffee. He will shift just a little, still more asleep than he is awake, to whimper and whine about being cold and wanting _my Hwa to come back to bed_ which makes his heart hurt in new ways, but he’s asleep again when Seonghwa is halfway to the door.

By the time Hongjoong stumbles into the kitchen, wearing one of Seonghwa’s shirts (“they’re bigger, so they’re comfier”), Seonghwa is sliding some toast and eggs across the breakfast bar, followed a long black with no sugar. Hongjoong grabs the mug and hums around a mouthful when Seonghwa wraps an arm around his waist so he can pull him a little closer, kiss the side of his head and brush his hair away from his face. It’s a bit of a tangled mess and Hongjoong lets his head fall back, exposing more of it for Seonghwa to play with.

They stand like that for a few minutes, Seonghwa just nuzzling the side of his face and Hongjoong just purring into it, until Seonghwa is pulling away to let Hongjoong eat. He ignores the protesting little sound the smaller makes, and nearly jumps out of his skin at the sight of Wooyoung standing in the doorway.

His arms are crossed against his bare chest and his eyes are narrowed. There’s a disgustingly dark purple bruise on one of his pectorals, and something that vaguely resembles scratch marks along one shoulder that Seonghwa fears will get infected unless Wooyoung showers the stench of sex and San off him within the next hour, but his smirk is the most incredibly judgemental part of him.

Seonghwa clears his throat, Hongjoong too sleepy to realise they’d had an audience as he nibbles on his toast, before announcing he’s off to take that shower. Hongjoong grunts in understanding, and Wooyoung suppresses an off-handed comment when he sees the fire raging in Seonghwa’s eyes as he passes by.

One night, Seonghwa just can’t seem to settle—Hongjoong is asleep in front of him again, as usual ( _little spoon, little spoon, little spoon)_ , but Seonghwa is wide awake.

There’s an itch beneath the surface of his skin that feels bone-deep, and no matter which way he rearranges himself on the mattress, he can’t seem to get comfortable. He isn’t sure if Hongjoong is asleep, hopes he isn’t going to wake him up if he is with all his shifting, but Seonghwa feels restless and can’t keep his limbs still.

Out of nowhere, Hongjoong is reaching around and grabbing Seonghwa’s thigh—the one that belonged to the leg that kept moving up and down beneath the blankets. Seonghwa jumps, startled, and watches with wide, guilty eyes as Hongjoong sits up onto his elbows. Seonghwa immediately misses his warmth, and the itch suddenly burns hotter, and there’s prickling at the back of his eyes. He’s afraid he may actually start crying for some unidentified reason when Hongjoong is moving his hands from his thigh—so _warm_ —and forcing them onto his shoulders.

“Roll,” he commands, voice flat and devoid of any emotion, but not sounding controlling or cold by any means.

Seonghwa obeys, rolls onto his side, so he was facing the wall this time, instead of away from it. He hates it, because not only can he not _feel_ Hongjoong, but he also can’t see him, either. Then, in the next heartbeat, when Seonghwa really does feel himself ready to bawl, Hongjoong is sinking up close behind him.

Hongjoong’s arms wrap tightly around him, secure on his waist and above his navel, his favourite spot it seems as it’s also where they rest in the studio. His thumbs, as always, draw little patterns on his skin, but this time, there is a fire in their path—they’ve slipped beneath the material of his sleep shirt, and he feels closer to Hongjoong now than he ever has, and not just because of the physicality.

( _Big spoon, big spoon, big spoon_.)

Hongjoong’s head is tucked into his neck, nose brushing along the thin line of his neck, as if drinking in whatever scent he finds there. His chest is pressed entirely up against Seonghwa’s back, and the itch that he felt beneath his skin disappears, the tears in his eyes dry up, and it’s like the ache in his bones had never been there in the first place.

“Sleep, baby,” Hongjoong mumbles, a soft whisper into the darkness, a delicate brush of lips against temples, and Seonghwa grasps at the hands on his stomach before allowing himself to fully sink into all of this.

Most nights, Seonghwa will hold Hongjoong to sleep, but there are some moments when Hongjoong knows exactly what Seonghwa wants and needs. Those nights, when Hongjoong presses endless kisses onto his face and holds him close and warm and impossibly tight, and they’re hidden in the darkness and privacy of whatever all of this is, Seonghwa will finally allow himself to admit that he is in love with Kim Hongjoong.

After that realisation, the morning always comes too quick.

What started with food and hugs, television shows and everything in between, cheeks kisses and small displays of affection between them had become rapidly normalised. Good morning cheek kisses and neck nuzzles on the couch during movie nights passed by without a bat of the eye. Hongjoong engaged in skinship more now than ever before, and it had even started to trickle its way onto other members, too.

In interviews and TV show appearances, Hongjoong interacted with Seonghwa more affectionately, but that give and take bantering and teasing that existed between them never did seem to die—much to both Seonghwa and the fans’ relief.

Seonghwa felt happier now than ever before, eating dinner with Hongjoong, cuddling with Hongjoong, sleeping with Hongjoong. He did menial tasks with him: laundry, face masks, even brushing their teeth. Just last week, Hongjoong had accompanied Seonghwa to his dentist appointment, and Seonghwa had gone home with Hongjoong to see Hongjoong’s brother.

They were more of a duo and a team now than they had ever been before, and while neither one of them had commented on it in one, lack of recognition, and two, fear of losing this new companionship, the other members most certainly _had_ noticed.

While they, too, never commented on it, at least not verbally, Seonghwa and Hongjoong definitely hadn’t missed their curious glances and waggling eyebrows. When Seonghwa would kiss Hongjoong on the cheek in the kitchen and rub his hands up and down his arms when he was cold, Yunho would wiggle and pull childish faces behind his back. When Hongjoong back hugged Seonghwa, his cheek pressed against the spot between his shoulder blades as he was trying to work out, begging him to come back to the studio and keep him company, San would bite his tongue and smirk in the mirror. Seonghwa would do just about anything Hongjoong asked, and whenever he did, he’d get a text from Wooyoung merely saying “whipped” and nothing else.

Seonghwa didn’t care; if making Hongjoong happy meant Seonghwa was whipped for him, then so be it. Truth be told, Seonghwa wasn’t sure why whipped was even used in a teasing, almost jokingly insulting way: doing everything you can to make the person you love _happy_? That was admirable, not something to be teased about!

It was then though, that Seonghwa realised—Hongjoong wasn’t his partner. They loved each other, but they weren’t _in_ love.

Or, rather: Hongjoong loved Seonghwa, but Hongjoong would never love anyone as much as he did his music or the lines of pretty poetry that planted the stories within them.

Something about that made Seonghwa’s insides hurt.

But things keep on changing.

When Seonghwa lets himself into Hongjoong’s studio one night a few days later to find it empty, he’s confused. He stands in the middle of the room, surprised, having never really expected to find it as quiet as it was. Hongjoong hadn’t told him he was going to be anywhere else, but it wasn’t like Seonghwa told him he was on his way over. I mean, he hadn’t ever announced it before, and it was an unspoken rule that Seonghwa showed up around this same time, but perhaps he had gone for dinner with the other producers?

The weather was terrible, heavy rain and lightning and thunder, so he had just hoped Hongjoong remembered to take a heavy jacket and umbrella with him. He fishes out his phone to text Hongjoong that he’ll leave the food in the fridge if he ever wants it, but then the studio door is opening, and then Hongjoong is pushing through it.

He’s soaking wet and _shivering_ , without an umbrella or coat, and wearing only a thin jumper. He’s carrying a plastic bag from the convenience store down the road that quote, ‘sells the better ice creams’, and shaking water from his hair like a dog. Hongjoong doesn’t look surprised to see him, but he smiles brightly at him, eyes crinkling into pretty little crescent moons.

Normally, Seonghwa would preen and giggle and hold him in his arms and feed him and spread himself across his lap like a ragdoll cat, but right now, all Seonghwa does is sees _red._

He stamps forward, grabbing the shopping bag from his hands and throwing it on the couch. Hongjoong yelps, goes to say something in protest, but then Seonghwa is yanking is wet jumper off and throwing it on the floor by the door. Hongjoong’s cheeks immediately redden—they were already a delicate shade of pink, bitten by the cold, along with his nose—and his eyes fall to where Seonghwa is yanking off his own hoodie. Hongjoong reaches out to him, as if to stop his movements, but then Seonghwa is yanking the hoodie down over his head. He makes an unattractive, bird-like squawk and earns himself a mouthful of fabric, but then he’s guiding his arms through the much too large hoodie with very little resistance.

Truthfully, Hongjoong already looks as though he’s starting to thaw; the hoodie would have been incredibly warm given Seonghwa had been wearing it most of the day and it was already oversized on him, and Hongjoong’s eyes shutter closed as he openly inhales the scent of Seonghwa’s bodywash and cologne.

The tranquillity leaves quickly, however, as suddenly Seonghwa is running his cardigan that he had removed through his hair to dry it. He’s mumbling under his breathe, too, hoping Hongjoong can differentiate it from fond little curses to actual legitimate concern.

“Seonghwa,” Hongjoong whines, dragging out the last vowel, “you’re hurting me!”

Seonghwa yanks hard, one more time, on Hongjoong’s hair, before moving it to his face.

“What are you _doing_ , going out in this weather without a proper jacket? Do you _want_ to kill me? Do you want to get sick?”

Seonghwa runs a dry sleeve of his cardigan against Hongjoong’s forehead, then his cheeks, catching the rainwater that had trickled down from his hairline. Hongjoong doesn’t comment on his words, nor does he attempt to answer his questions; just allowed Seonghwa to pester and poke and prod and take care of him.

At some point, when Hongjoong is dry enough that Seonghwa doesn’t feel entirely enraged by panic, he folds his wet cardigan and throws it haphazardly onto the couch. It’s lost to a pile of Hongjoong’s clothes, but Seonghwa doesn’t mind.

“Don’t _do_ that Hongjoong,” Seonghwa says, running his hands down Hongjoong’s arms once, twice, before settling on his shoulders. His thumbs press into the side of Hongjoong’s neck, as if grounding him, keeping his feet on the earth, worried the rain or wind will wash or blow him away.

Seonghwa frowns at him, watches his eyes sadly, and hopes Hongjoong can understand at least a fraction of the pain and concern he is trying to convey.

But Hongjoong seems to do more than that.

Hongjoong, the mysterious, unpredictable, incredibly unique person that he is, does something that Seonghwa had no hope of ever predicting. It was so unexpected, in fact, that Seonghwa had rarely taken the time to even imagine it—to picture what it would be like.

Hongjoong is stepping up onto his tip toes and gently cupping Seonghwa’s cheeks in his hands, before he’s pressing their lips together.

Though Seonghwa hadn’t spent much time thinking about kissing Kim Hongjoong, it wasn’t like he hadn’t thought of it at all. He _had_.

He had thought enough about it that he wondered what Hongjoong would kiss like—would he be rough? Kissing hard and rough like the gravel in his voice when he rapped. Would he be cheeky, bite on his bottom lip till it was fat and swollen, giddy and playful like his laugh in his verses? Would he tangle their hands together by their sides and sway them back and forth, lips soft like butterfly wings and the air between them tranquil and peaceful and full of a romance ignited by past lives and predicted by fate? Or would be hot and heavy, like a trembling bass Hongjoong would conjure up at three am, would it radiate across his skin and down deep into his bones, would his toes curl up into shoes with the single brush of his tongue against his own, would there be bruises bone-deep against his hips where Hongjoong’s grip only tightened and tightened as the kiss grew hotter?

But of all these things—all these things that he imagined and predicated and thought could come true, none of them, _none of them_ , were anything like _this._

Hongjoong kissed like poetry books with broken spines with past lovers. Like highlighted sentences of pure beauty and wisdom; like dog-eared pages. He kisses with the fire of something written fifty years ago about a love that would last forever; like the _happy birthday_ message scribbled at the top left-hand corner on the front inside cover of an English poetry collection about true-love and second chances.

Hongjoong kisses like a dustcover almost split in two but taped back as one over and over and over again. Kisses like a stolen library collection full of stamps in the back, returned and re-loved and then lost and now loved once again. He kisses like letters into words into sentences into rhymes, into a magic string of letters Seonghwa cannot even begin to comprehend.

Hongjoong kisses like the way poetry reads, expensive and refined and the tiniest bit melancholic. He is beautiful and broken and hard around the edges, soft all on the inside and magic with his touch; Kim Hongjoong is poetry as much as the words in his notebook are, as much as the words are stacked up on their desk back at home, as much as his lips pressing assonances and couplets and metaphors and anapaests and dactylic patterns into Seonghwa’s own lips are.

He is a sestet, he is a sonnet, he is a trochaic rhyme with a never-ending stanza. Hongjoong kisses like an enjambment, lines stumbling over after each other. He is a ballad, he is an ode, he is a terza rima. He is a senryu, haiku, quatrain, a limerick.

Hongjoong kisses like the words he could say and the ones that he couldn’t.

Somewhere along the way Seonghwa realised that these kisses weren’t unlike what he had imagined; they were just an accumulation of every version put together. Because Kim Hongjoong wasn’t one or the other, he was an impossible answer to an impossible question, a three-line poem in a five-page stanza; something entirely unthinkable because he was entirely unimaginable.

Hongjoong kissed like poetry, and Seonghwa was the empty page.

When Hongjoong steps into the kitchen the next morning, the atmosphere is different to all the other times. They’re not _awkward,_ not really, just inexperienced— _uncertain_ of what the boundaries are, of what to do next, of what to avoid.

They’re standing in the kitchen just looking at each other like this is the first time they’ve ever even met, and Seonghwa hates how ridiculous this all is. Hongjoong must feel the same, or maybe they’re more in tune with each other than either of them realised, because they’re suddenly stepping forwards into each other’s arms in the next heartbeat. Their arms are wrapped loosely around each other and Seonghwa bites the bullet and turns it into a proper hug, pressing further forward, tucking his head onto Hongjoong’s shoulder, feeling Hongjoong do the same.

The hug lasts for what feels like an eternity, Seonghwa’s head fuzzy at the warmth and senses drowning in Hongjoong’s scent, and he starts to wonder at what point did Hongjoong start to have this effect on him. He feels Hongjoong nuzzle against his side, press a tiny little kiss to his ear, before pulling Seonghwa’s head away from his neck. He slides his mouth along his jaw, down his cheek to his chin, where he kisses again before hesitating.

Seonghwa can see the slight shift in his eyes and in his confidence, so Seonghwa dives in and pretends his veins aren’t overweight with anxiety—he grips Hongjoong’s chin in both hands, and finally, _finally,_ presses their lips together.

It’s as soft and as unimaginable as it had been the very first time, more familiar but no less surprising. It fills him up with love and comfort the same way their kiss yesterday had, and he’s greeted by the same light-headedness. Hongjoong mumbles something unintelligible against his mouth, hands holding him by his hips, and Seonghwa just kisses him deeper. It’s still soft—not the same wild, tangled mess that Wooyoung and San seem to find themselves in more often than not—but Seonghwa can’t tell where his body ends and where Hongjoong’s begins.

Their noses knock together and Hongjoong is tilting his face to accommodate their differences in height, and Seonghwa finds comfort in rubbing his thumbs back forth along Hongjoong’s cheeks as they kiss in the empty kitchen. They kiss until light fills up the sky outside the kitchen window, till Hongjoong is so close he can feel the rapidly beating heart against his chest, till Seonghwa’s hand is dangerously close to his backside, till Hongjoong is pulling away all breathless and red and beautiful as ever, pressing tiny kisses to his mouth and cheeks and nose and face, mumbling something about beauty and roses and past lives—until Seonghwa just swallows each one, ready for whatever comes next, ready for all of it, for a little more than _all of this._

It’s a scene much like many others—Seonghwa entering Hongjoong’s studio to find his couch full of company seniors and Hongjoong smiling at him from across the room.

This time, however, instead of snatching his food from Seonghwa’s hands and simply walking away, Hongjoong takes it gently in one hand, drags Seonghwa’s face down to his with the other, kisses him open mouthed and a little too needily for their audience, smirking against him when he hears the ragged inhale Seonghwa makes, before mumbling a little _thank you, baby_ , against his parted mouth.

Seonghwa takes his rightful place on Hongjoong’s lap, his cheeks as red now as they were all those weeks ago, and while Hongjoong traces aimless patterns on Seonghwa’s stomach, Seonghwa ignores the little whistles and coos coming from the couch.

He’s comfortable like this, _happy_ —god, _fuck_ , and he’s so in love.

Seonghwa thinks about Hongjoong’s tangled, sleep-messed hair, how it strangles around the back of his neck and dances prettily above his eyebrows. It tucks itself, surprisingly, rather neatly behind his ears, only because its length means it finds itself naturally falling that way. It’s different though vaguely familiar to all his hairstyles before this.

Admittedly, Seonghwa misses his undercut from their Wonderland days, that beautiful purply navy blue, but this warm hot chocolate brown is perfectly fitting for the soft, younger boy who was as warm as the milk beverage was on a late winter’s night. And, as much as Hongjoong reminded Seonghwa of the night, he was also a pleasant good morning—a beautiful sunrise one might blink and miss if they did not force their eyes open.

Seonghwa loved these little moments, where Hongjoong’s eyes were drooping but he pretended that they weren’t; his empty teacup hanging loosely in his fingers and threatening to drop to the rug at the foot of the couch; his other hand, draped itself all slack over Seonghwa’s thigh; and his body weight shifted and slanted into Seonghwa’s chest, and the elder swears that their heart beats matched.

He’s so warm alongside him. Warmer than anything else Seonghwa thinks he’s ever known or felt or heard about; warmer than anything he wishes to find in the future. So warm, in fact, that Seonghwa feels like he’s soaking in a hot bath at the end of a long, tiresome week; his muscles feel relaxed and his legs like they’re made of jelly.

He wants nothing more than to run his hands through the soft yet tangled mess atop Hongjoong’s scalp, but knows what with how light the younger sleeps, it would do more harm than good. Instead, Seonghwa admires the way his chest rises and falls in a smooth, uninterrupted rhythm, the utmost indication that Hongjoong was very much _alive_ , and focuses on the barely audible noises that slip out between parted lips ( _mouth breather_ ).

Somewhere in the outskirts of Seoul, a stack of unread poetry books with broken spines are being sold again at a second-hand store, the lovers in their pages a romantic history worth forgiving. Seonghwa is thankful for the lovers’ roses who were stolen just for them; hopes someone else picks up their blooms and finds a happiness as pure as this.

Seonghwa thinks about the idea of infinity, and how scientists and spiritualists alike deny its plausibility on the grounds that humans rarely live beyond their eighties, but he dares anyone to deny its existence when they’re lying in the arms of the one that they love.

If just one day with Kim Hongjoong feels like infinity, then Park Seonghwa cannot wait to spend every tomorrow exploring eternity with him.

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!!!! this was my first seongjoong fic pls be gentle with me also im not gr8 at fluff but i did my best!!!!
> 
> also 'true lovers' by holy holy was created for seongjoong to cover but thats whatever


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